


We Will Draw Near

by OftenWrongSoong



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Arguments, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Good Omens Big Bang, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Infection, Love Confessions, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mild Gore, Oral Sex, Past Tense, Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), Present Tense, Stabbing, Tags Are Hard, True Forms, Wounds, they are both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22542367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OftenWrongSoong/pseuds/OftenWrongSoong
Summary: It is 1983, and the Middle East is not a good place for an angel. But when a holy man calls down the wrath of God, it's a certain demon who is in the firing line. Aziraphale finds himself once more torn between his duty and his friend.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 85
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	We Will Draw Near

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens Big Bang. This fic simply wouldn't have happened were it not for the patience and support of my fantastic Beta, imnotokaywiththerunning, who has been of immense support and guidance, even if I'm still grumpy that they took all my commas. 
> 
> Podfic by the lovely and patient BiP here! https://archiveofourown.org/works/22550614

Later

  
  


"Crowley! Crowley, get up!"

He didn't bother to open his eyes and simply waved his arm vaguely, battering at the annoying noise.

"Shuup. Five more minnisss."

"You need to get up, _now!_ "

"Don' wanna."

A strong hand seized his jaw, short nails digging into his cheeks. Not aggressive, but implacable.

"Open your eyes, look at me! For goodness' sake Crowley, get _up!_ "

The demon opened his eyes and blinked them rapidly as his pupils constricted against the harsh, bright light. Slowly a face swam into view, and he grimaced as he tried to focus and bring three separate wavering images together into one.

The face hovering over his was one he knew as well as his own, perhaps even better. It was limned with sunlight and a halo of unruly blonde hair, and its blue eyes were full of fear, the pale skin streaked with dirt and blood.

"Angel?" Crowley mumbled blearily.

"Praise be, you're conscious," Aziraphale gasped, releasing his grip on his jaw and latching his hand around the demon's arm, tugging insistently. "Come on, you've _got_ to get up, we have to _go!_ "

He wanted to ask 'What? Where? Why?', but Crowley sensed through a muzzy haze that now was not the time to be asking questions. He managed to get his other arm to obey him and tried to push himself into a sitting position. Instead, a shock of pain sent him collapsing back with a gasp. He raised his head to look down at his own prone body and lifted a trembling hand to gingerly touch the place in his stomach where the pain had been centered, where red was oozing out in an ominous flow and soaking into his shirt.

"There's a hole in me!" He croaked. "Someone's put a bloody great _hole_ in me!"

"Yes, _yes_ , and that's why we have to _go!_ " Aziraphale was dragging on his arm, trying to haul him to his feet.

"Right, right, okay." Crowley's head spun and the world tilted sickeningly around him as he shoved himself upright. Aziraphale slung one of Crowley's arms over his shoulder and half-carried, half-dragged him as the demon snarled with pain. Crowley closed his eyes, almost immediately stumbled, and forced his gummy eyes open again. He shook his head irritably, but that only made the universe swing wildly around him, and he swallowed dryly against the nausea.

"Come on, come _on_ , the jeep's just up ahead!" Aziraphale's voice was harsh.

"S'not a Jeep, 's a Land Rover."

"Now is _not_ the time to be pedantic!" Aziraphale snapped. Crowley's eyes slid shut again and his knees buckled, almost pulling the angel off his feet.

"Not now, not _now!_ " Aziraphale shook him roughly. "Get up!"

"Shan't. Lemme sleep."

"Crowley, if you don't get up _right this minute_ , I shall... I shall leave you here!"

"No you won't."

"Well... No, you're right, I won't, but _please!_ " There was definite panic in the angel's voice, high-pitched and strained. Crowley grimaced.

"I'm _tired_."

"No you're _not_ , you're _dying,_ and you're going to _finish_ dying unless you pull yourself together and _get us out of here!"_

There was a distant rumble, a heavy percussive thump, and the ground trembled beneath the demon's knees. _Pull yourself together, he says, as if it's that simple_ . Crowley gritted his teeth. _Right._

He'd been on earth, in this body, for centuries. He knew how it worked, knew its quirks and foibles. At that moment his tongue was like a lump of leather, his heart was pounding, lungs heaving in shallow gasps. He was exhausted and confused. Blood loss. He was dehydrated, and the air around him was arid and hot, so no moisture to be had there. What he needed was adrenaline.

His mind drifted back to a nightclub in Manchester in nineteen-seventy-something, when he had been slumped against the bar scowling at the idiots around him, and an acquaintance had stumbled over to him with a plastic bag full of powder.

"Come on, mate! This'll cheer you up, party all night, come on!"

He had snorted two lines that left his eyes watering and his mouth dry, danced himself into a haze of perspiration, and then purged his system and left at ten the next morning.

It amazed him that humans would put such ridiculous concoctions into their bodies with so little regard to the consequences. Simple molecular chains that would addle their brains and, at best, make them forget how shit their lives really were or, at worst, leave them drooling and mumbling in a corner until their hearts gave out. Stupid. But perhaps useful, right now.

He tried to remember, through a torpid fog, what the damned stuff was called.

Whizz. Billy. Benny. Base.

Amphetamine. The stuff they gave to World War Two pilots and fifties housewives. Hell, he could remember when they used to sell inhalers of the stuff from the duty-free cart on long-distance flights.

He dredged the depths of his mind as Aziraphale all but carried him to the open-top vehicle that was waiting at the end of the dusty track, and the ground shuddered under their feet again. Surely he could make something out of thin air that'd do the same job, he'd spun stars from _nothing_ for fuck's sake, and he's in charge of this stupid body, whether it likes it or not. C9H13N, he sucked the molecules from the air and shunted them into his brain, feeling the neurons spark and flare. His vision sharpened, the fog cleared from his mind.

"Okay, okay..." He breathed. "I've got this. I'm okay."

"Come _on_ , you've got to drive. Heaven forgive me, the day I actually _ask_ you to do this, but..." Aziraphale shoved him into the driver's seat. " _Step on it."_

Crowley ignored the key and the engine roared into life at a thought as the angel swung himself into the passenger seat. The moment his arse hit the leather Crowley jammed his foot onto the pedal and into what remained of the carpet and the car lurched forward, kicking up a cloud of dust.

Behind them there was another tremendous thump, and the pebbles leapt off the track as the tires slipped and slithered over sand and dirt and sand again. Crowley's knuckles were white as he gripped the wheel and ground his teeth, and Aziraphale grabbed what Crowley insisted upon calling the 'Oh Shit' handle and tried to remain in the vehicle as it bounced and skidded through potholes and over the rough track.

"What the fuck?" Crowley snarled through gritted teeth. "What the _fuck?_ "

  
  


  
  


Before

  
  


  
  


"I think you'll find this an interesting experience." Aziraphale grimaces as the Land Rover bounces through another pothole.

"Yeah, _interesting,_ " Crowley growls, one hand on the wheel, the other hanging languid from the open window. "You know what's interesting? The Autobahn. _Tarmac_ , angel, not this..." he flicks the wheel to steer them round a particularly large hole, tires squealing in protest, "... this _shitpit_. Road's got more craters than a teenager's face."

Aziraphale's own face is ashen, and he's clinging to the handle mounted on the doorframe for dear life. He has long since discovered that the seatbelt is purely ornamental and discarded it.

The man who had sold them the car (Aziraphale had insisted on paying, and Crowley had then insisted on haggling) had promised them that it was more than capable of transporting them to their destination and back again, although whether it would be fit for anything after that was doubtful. It's an ancient, open-top Land Rover, which Aziraphale had innocently described as 'topless', making Crowley cackle. There was a hole in the windscreen surrounded by a spider web of cracks, and an ominous rust-brown stain on the driver's seat which the dealer had assured them was a spilt coffee. Crowley had grinned, all teeth and no smile, as he ran his hands knowingly over the car and reeled off a list of everything that was faulty, broken, in need of imminent replacement, or just plain shabby. The dealer had mopped his brow with his sleeve and eventually settled on a price a third of his original. Aziraphale had paid, Crowley had bullied the Land Rover into gear, and they had slewed out of the lot in a shower of gravel.

Now they are bouncing down a rough track on their way to their respective assignments.

"Well, if you'd rather be elsewhere, I'm sure I could have hired a taxi," Aziraphale snips, feet braced in the footwell.

"Nah, had to come, didn't I? Same place, same time... big deal these days." Crowley takes his hand off the wheel to shove his sunglasses up his nose. "Wouldn't want to miss out on the fun."

"Yes, well..." They hit another tooth-loosening bump. "I'm sure I could have... 'arranged' something."

His tone is pointed. Crowley swings his head carelessly towards the angel.

"Seems to me..." he twitches the wheel again, "... that this one is a bit too... complex."

"Yes, there is rather a lot of to-ing and fro-ing between the relative factions."

"Could put it like that." Crowley turns his eyes back to the track. "So which side are your lot on?"

"I _beg_ your pardon?" Aziraphale looks at him with offended astonishment. Crowley shrugs.

"Look, there're four ways to look at this lot, okay?" He glances at the angel to check he has his attention. "So, number one, they're a totalitarian dictatorship looking to crush any dissenting voices."

"That would be bad." Aziraphale winces as they judder over another series of holes.

"Alternatively..." Crowley twists the wheel between his fingers. "They are a strong and stable leadership looking to ensure lasting peace in their country by snuffing out the rebels."

"Which would be good." Aziraphale's hair is caked with dust, and he winces as the tires slip again in the loose dirt road.

" _Or..._ " Crowley flicks his gaze back to the angel. "They are a group of dedicated and brave freedom fighters determined to liberate their fellow citizens from the brutal tyranny of a harsh dictatorship."

"Which is, also, good." Aziraphale tries futilely to wipe the dirt from his face with a handkerchief.

" _However_...." Crowley is grinning, "Perhaps they're a dastardly bunch of terrorists who's only thought is to sow discord and spread chaos in the name of freedom."

"That... That would be bad." Aziraphale's brow creases in consternation.

"So, what side are they on?" Crowley graces the angel with a toothy smile as he flings the Land Rover around another crater. Aziraphale clenches his jaw.

"I... I'm sure it will be clear when we get there. Just _watch the road_."

"Suuuuure." Crowley grins. "I _love_ the Middle East."

" _Crowley_!" Aziraphale yelps as they thunder through another pothole.

  
  


Later

  
  


"Crowley!"

He wasn't sure if it was the voice that woke him or the jolt as his forehead hit the steering wheel. Either way, his head snapped back, eyes wide with shock, fingers gripping the wheel until it felt like his knuckles would break through the skin.

"I'm losing it, angel," He snarled, hoping his anger would sustain him.

"There's a place, I saw it on the way... There, _there_ , to the left!"

Aziraphale waved his arm, pointing them down a track, and Crowley spun the wheel and sent the car juddering off the road and towards a series of buildings.

"I think it's abandoned. A lot of people fled the area when the fighting started again." Aziraphale was peering through the cracked screen, trying to pick out any signs of habitation.

"There better _not_ be anyone there, I've had enough human interaction for one day." Crowley ground his teeth together as the wheels slammed through a series of potholes, sending electric jolts of agony shooting through him. "Fuck, _fuck,_ _**fuck** **!**_ "

He brought the car to a skidding halt in front of the largest of the buildings. Even that was just a one-storey hovel, two rooms, one door. No windows, cracks and pits in the plaster a historical tapestry of weapons fire. Aziraphale leapt from the car and bustled round to drag Crowley from the driver's seat. Crowley leaned on him gratefully, hissing through his teeth as they stumbled into the building over the shattered remains of the door.

  
  


Before

  
  


Crowley insists on parking the car outside the dismal little township and walking to the centre.

"A quaint and traditional community..." He reads from the guidebook as he swings down out of the car, "... with a small but enchanting market and many historic points of interest. Be sure to stop at one of the family owned and run cafes or restaurants."

"Oh dear." Aziraphale's brow creases as he slides awkwardly from his seat and turns his head, taking in the devastation with blue eyes wide and sad.

What had been a small town is now mostly ruins, slowly being swallowed by sand-dunes. Here and there humans scuttle or huddle in small groups, furtive and anxious. Groups of children play in a desultory way amidst the rubble. Most of the storefronts are boarded shut, graffiti scrawled over the rough planks.

"They used to do the most wonderful pastries," Aziraphale murmurs, waving his hand at a long-abandoned cafe. "Why on earth couldn't we have driven into the centre of town? We could have avoided all this..."

"No way! Look at this place." Crowley scowls. "Probably got IED's everywhere."

"Isn't that a contraceptive?" Aziraphale frowns. Crowley quirks an eyebrow.

"No, that's an I _U_ D. Although an IED would probably do the job, considering you'd be missing all the necessary... Hang on, how do _you_ know about...?"

"Ah, I think that's my man." Aziraphale waves at a figure huddled in a group of similarly dressed-men, who had raised his head at their approach. Crowley winces.

"Yeah, that'll be him." The holy light that's shining from him is blinding to the demon's seventh sense, the man's righteousness and divine purpose illuminating him with an aura of devotion. "Wonder which side he's fighting for?"

" _Whichever_ side he's on, it's obvious he's been blessed." Aziraphale beams. "Don't see it that often these days."

"Hm, been a while hasn't it?" Crowley scowls. "Can't say I've missed it."

"You know it quite takes me back," Aziraphale muses. "Ah, _those_ were the days. You _really_ knew where you stood."

"Yeah, in a bloody war zone," Crowley growls. The man stops before them, grinning widely at the angel, one hand resting casually on the semi-automatic rifle that's slung round his neck.

"As-salam alaykom. You must be Sidi Fell. I am Sami. Welcome!" His teeth flash white, the Arabic language formal and musical.

"Wa alykom as-salam." Aziraphale dips his head in acknowledgment, the language coming easily to his tongue. "Yes, I've been rather looking forward to meeting you."

The man turns his head and his grin slips slightly as his gaze takes in the angel's companion. Crowley lifts his lip in what might be a smile but very clearly isn't. He had dispensed with his jacket back in the car, had rolled up his shirt sleeves in deference to the heat, and is now doing his level best to slouch on thin air.

"And your... companion?" Sami turns suspicious eyes to Aziraphale. The angel smiles nervously and twists his fingers together.

"Ah, yes, well, this is, um..."

"I'm his driver," Crowley drawls in Arabic. "Don't mind me. Pretend I'm not here."

"All the same..." Sami's brow creases. "I would prefer for us to converse in private. Please..." He sweeps his arm, indicating a building off the road. "My home? It's not much, but my wife will make us coffee..."

"I'm sure it will be fine." Aziraphale smiles. "Ah, will you..." He turns to the demon and switches back to English. "Do you mind...?"

"No, no..." Crowley flips his hand dismissively, distracted. "You go ahead."

"Is everything all right?" Aziraphale eyes him with concern.

"Yup. Just found my lot."

"Ah! Then you'll, um... be off, then? Meet me back at the jeep?"

"It's a Land Rover, not a Jeep." Crowley's brows are drawn together, his jaw set. "I'm not going anywhere. They're coming here."

"What?" Aziraphale squeaks. "Do you mean to say...?"

There is a thump from the distance, followed swiftly by a crashing boom. At the edge of town smoke billows, and the humans raise their voices in consternation. Children scatter, men are running, guns in their hands.

"Yup. Must be what I'm here to see to." Crowley swings his head to give the angel a tight smile. "Stands to reason, dunnit? I've got to snuff your pious warrior."

"Oh, but you _can't_ , Crowley!" Aziraphale wails. "We've come _all_ this way...."

There's another bang, closer this time, and the ground shivers beneath their feet.

"Wait, what do you mean?"

The angel and the demon snap their heads round to regard the human. Sami had addressed them in English. The man's gun is leveled at Crowley's chest, and the demon raises his hands, palms out, placating.

"Hey, come on, now. I just got this shirt, don't fancy putting a bunch of holes in it just yet."

  
  


Later

  
  


"This shirt is _ruined._ "

"I think we have more important things to worry about." Aziraphale's eyes swept the room, searching out anything of use in the small building. "Oh, oh there's not a _stick_ of furniture. They must have taken everything with them when they..."

"Angel." Crowley's voice was a low growl. "Just miracle something."

"I... but..." Aziraphale's brow creased in consternation. "How am I supposed to explain it to... Up There?"

"You'll think of something."

Aziraphale sighed deeply, and then closed his eyes.

_Not a bed, too ostentatious, don't want to call too much attention. A pallet, then, straw-stuffed, the sort of thing that might have already been here. Water, in a pitcher, with a cup. Clay, simple, nothing fancy. Fly under the radar._

He helped the demon to the rough mattress and eased him down to sit, and Crowley sucked a gasp through his teeth.

"Right. Um, I... I suppose..." Aziraphale looked at him anxiously. "Have... have you tried... healing?"

"Of _course_ I bloody have, it won't _bloody_ work, you know that!" Crowley snarled weakly. "Water, before I lie down."

"I-I really think that we should..."

"Angel," Crowley growled. "If I lie down, I'm not getting back up any time soon."

"Right. Right, um." Aziraphale grabbed the cup and sloshed water into it, and Crowley held out one trembling bloodied hand.

"I rather think that you ought to let me," The angel murmured, and for a wonder Crowley simply nodded, and Aziraphale held the cup to his lips and tried not to watch the way the tanned skin moved over the demon's throat as he swallowed.

"Okay, okay." Crowley flapped his hand weakly, waving the empty cup away, and then gasped as Aziraphale lowered him down onto the rough mattress.

"Better get to it, angel." Crowley's teeth were clenched tight, his eyes unfocused, and Aziraphale's hands shook where they hovered over the demon's chest.

"Yes, yes, of course, um." Aziraphale looked down at the demon's stomach. Crowley had both hands clenched tight over his bloodied body, the black shirt soaked and torn.

"Um. I suppose we'll have to, uh, do this the human way then."

"Fuuuck, angel, I'm... I'm gonna pass out."

"No-no-no, _please_ Crowley, stay with me..." The angel squeezed his eyes shut tight.

_First aid kit. No, no, wait, a field medic's kit._

"Crowley, I... I need to, um, take a look, at the, uh..."

Crowley hissed between gritted teeth and forced his arms to drop to his sides. Aziraphale set his jaw and began unbuttoning the demon's shirt with twitching fingers. Soft skin dappled with freckles, a fluffy down of brick-red hair...

 _Oh for goodness' sake get a grip, he's hurt,_ _**really** _ _hurt, now is not the time!_

Aziraphale peeled the shirt back, and it stuck and then stopped. Crowley growled.

"Sorry, sorry, hang on..." The angel grabbed the pitcher of water and sloshed it over the shirt, soaking it loose. It peeled away, ripping the clotted blood from the demon's stomach.

"Oh... oh dear."

  
  


Before

  
  


"Oh dear," Aziraphale says weakly.

"Tell me what's going on, Sidi Fell! Who is this man? What has he _done_?" Sami demands, jerking the barrel of the rifle threateningly at Crowley, who's backing away, crooked smile fixed on his face.

"No, please, there's been a-a misunderstanding," Aziraphale stammers, placing himself in front of the aggrieved man. "Everything will be just..."

There's a deafening boom and the earth rocks, sand and pebbles leaping into clouds of dust as the building across the street explodes in a shower of plaster, mortar and splinters. The three men are jolted off their feet as shrieks of alarm, fear and pain fill the air, the percussive impact a shrill ringing in their ears.

Aziraphale is the first to scramble upright and he stumbles, choking on dust, to the fallen human. Sami is stirring, disoriented and confused, blood sheeting down his face from a cut on his forehead as the angel helps him to his feet.

"What..." Sami mumbles.

"We have to find cover!" Aziraphale thinks that he might be speaking a little too loudly, but he can barely hear his own voice over the high-pitched whistle in his own head. "Your family..."

"Yes!" Sami's eyes are suddenly full of fear. "Please, you must help!"

"Of course, of course, but..."

"Angel?"

Aziraphale's head snaps round. Crowley is on his feet, staggering towards them through the wreckage, one hand over his face, sunglasses lost, shattered and gone.

"Crowley!" He can't help the pathetic note of relief that creeps into his voice. _He's still here, still alive!_

"Well, thank _fuck_ for that." Crowley pushes his hand up through his hair, attempting casualness. "Figured you'd be under a ton of rubble."

"What..." Sami breathes, and Aziraphale's attention is jerked back to the human, who is regarding Crowley with horror.

"What... what _are_ you?" The man blurts. Crowley stumbles to a halt, eyes wide.

Inhuman eyes. Snake eyes, golden and incriminating.

"Oh, fuck," Aziraphale breathes.

  
  


Later

  
  


"Oh _fuck_!" The angel gasped.

"D-did you just _swear?_ " Crowley slurred. His head rolled laxly on the thin mattress as he chuckled dryly. "I-I've never... been more attracted to you."

"Oh for heaven's sake be _quiet_ , I have to work out what to _do!_ " Aziraphale blurted as he turned to the med kit, rummaging through it. "I don't know how to use _half_ of this stuff!"

"You'll... figure something out," Crowley mumbled. "Jus' bandage the-the thing with the stuff."

"No, that won't work!" Aziraphale wailed. "You have to heal the _human_ way, and this body is all-all... tubes, and wiggly bits, and there's blood _everywhere_ , and, oh..." He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I've never had to actually _fix_ a human before, not like this. If I could just..."

"You know the rules as well as I do, angel." Crowley's voice was low and slurred, no hint of malice. Aziraphale sighed.

"Yes, yes, I know." _No bringing humans back from the dead. No healing of mortal wounds without prior written permission._

"Just... stick the thing on the thing, bit of antiseptic wossname, I'll be fine."

Crowley was _not_ going to be fine, not by a long shot, Aziraphale realized gloomily. He found the tube of antiseptic cream and smeared it over the wounds before slapping adhesive dressings over the top. He sat back on his heels to survey his handiwork before wondering whether he should have finished undressing Crowley before letting him rest. The thought made his face heat uncomfortably, and before he could think any more on the subject he miracled a light blanket and spread it over the demon's prone form.

"I-I'm sorry, I just don't know... I'm not sure there's anything else I _can_ do, not out here in the middle of nowhere. And-and I'm really supposed to be... out there. Helping. So, so I'll just, um, leave you to rest, and-and I'll be back... soon. You _do_ understand, don't you?"

Crowley was already unconscious.

  
  


Before

  
  


"You don't understand!" Aziraphale cries, waving his hands frantically. "He-he has a-a-a condition! Yes, a... a medical, um..."

"Shayāṭīn!" Sami breathes. He fumbles for his rifle but it's gone, buried in the rubble. Crowley eyes the man warily before giving him his best winning smile.

"Look, Sami, it's okay, I'll just... walk away. Angel, you going with him?"

"I rather think I ought to, yes."

Sami turns to Aziraphale, he's confused and hurt and angry, eyes wide under the mask of blood.

"How dare you? You bring him here, to my people, to betray us! And you would let him leave?"

"I didn't know!" Aziraphale murmurs. "And I'm sorry, _really_ I am, but it's... it's terribly complicated..."

"Make him forget, angel, I'm gone." Crowley salutes them idly and turns to begin loping away. He's stopped in his tracks by a wild cry.

"Shayāṭīn! I name you, I cast you out! By the grace of God, I throw you down!"

"Wait, _what?_ " Crowley turns to face him as Sami leaps forward, and Aziraphale is shouting and reaching for the man, but he can't seem to grab him as the holy warrior darts towards the demon, and there's a glint of metal in his hand, and then Crowley is doubling over around the knife in his stomach.

Knifings are never pretty. You can watch all the self-defence videos and Hollywood movies you like, but it won't help. No-one ever goes for you like the slasher in a horror movie, arm held above their head, knife facing downwards. Everyone knows that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. The knife is held low, at the hip, facing forwards. And you don't stick them once and stop, oh no, you punch in and out, as many times as you can, for maximum damage. Sami is frightened, betrayed, furious, and full of righteousness. One short, sharp movement in and out for each of those, and another to make sure the job is done. It's a combat knife, not fancy but practical, and it does what it was made to do.

It shouldn't have been that bad. Crowley's had worse. But it's a funny thing, when the truly holy call upon the name of God.

Being stabbed in the gut reminded Crowley of the time he had stepped into the road, distracted, and ended up over the bonnet of a Mercedes.

The power of God coursing through him was, he thought, a bit like that. Except that, instead of a rather nice car, he was being run over by the QE2.

The worst of it, he thinks as he sinks to his knees, and Aziraphale is wrapping his arms around the other man and dragging him away, the _worst_ of it, was that having the power of God poured into him made him aware that She wasn't angry with him.

She was _disappointed._

He topples over onto his side. _Well, shit. Should have gone to the Autobahn after all. Fuck the Middle East._ He tries in a vague sort of way to heal himself, but weapons wielded by the righteous are meant to destroy evil, and he gives up and settles for just lying there and watching his body leaking crimson into the dirt. Someone's shouting his name but, really, what he wants is a nap. A nice, long, peaceful...

"Crowley! Crowley, get up!"

  
  


August 9th 1983\. Somewhere in the Middle East.

Aziraphale is exhausted. It's the bone-weariness of twenty-four hours of constant activity, coupled with stress, fear, and bursts of adrenaline. He may be functionally immortal, but there's only so much his human vessel will tolerate.

He waves his thanks to the driver of the Humvee he had hitched a lift with, and starts walking back up the trail to the abandoned house in which he had left Crowley. He tries not to hurry, panicking will only tire him more.

“Crowley?” He enters the hut wearily, stumbling slightly over the broken door. “I'm _so_ sorry I've been so long, you wouldn't _believe_ the mess...”

It's the smell that hits him first and makes the hairs rise on the back of his neck and his breath catch in his throat. It's sweet and cloying. It smells like lilies and the miserable tents behind the trenches. It reminds him of streets filled with the sound of weeping, and the stalking of bird-masked doctors. It's the smell of putrescence, of death.

He launches himself across the room to the pallet where Crowley is curled in a tight ball, his back to the door. The thin blanket is twisted round his legs, the straw-filled mattress dark with sweat. Aziraphale almost can't bring himself to put his hand to the thin shoulder, lest his fingers feel nothing but the chill, clammy flesh of a corpse.

Instead what his hand finds is searing heat and shivering skin.

“Crowley.” The angel's voice is a broken whisper. “Oh, _Crowley_...”

“Angel?” Crowley rasps. His ribs suddenly heave in rapid, dragging gasps.

“Oh my dear, I should _never_ have left you for so long.”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley twists and his long arm snaps out to latch his fingers into the angel's shirt sleeve. “Angel... I-I woke up, and-and you weren't here...”

“I'm here, I'm here, oh...” Aziraphale's fingers tighten on his trembling shoulder. Crowley's head lolls, his yellow eyes are fever-bright and unfocused, his hair sticking to his face in lank sweat-soaked strands.

“I-I need to look at you, right now.” Aziraphale rolls Crowley, not ungently, onto his back. He still groans, his knees drawn up and arms crossed over his belly.

“Lie down now, there's a good chap.” Aziraphale tries to keep the tremble from his voice as he pushes Crowley's legs flat, pulls his arms to his sides.

“You weren't here, and I thought you might not come back, and I-I didn't know where you were...”

“Hush, hush now, I'm here.” The angel wrenches his gaze from yellow panic-filled eyes to look down at Crowley's wounds. The flesh is taut and red, angry-looking under the now rust-brown and peeling adhesive bandages. Aziraphale shudders and tries to keep his hands steady as he pulls the bandages away.

The wounds are putrid, stinking in the heat. The skin is searing hot and wet, the muscles underneath rigid and trembling. The angel drops his head into his hands and tries not to retch.

“I'm sorry, oh, I'm so _sorry,_ ” He mumbles into his palm.

“'S okay,” Crowley mumbles. “You're here now.”

“I... I don't... I can't...” Aziraphale hovers his hands over Crowley's stomach. He has a field medic's kit that he has no idea how to use, and six thousand years experience of just... waving his hand. Making it better. And he can't. He can't because this is the _enemy,_ and this is most definitely a mortal wound, and it was made by a man beloved by God...

But if he doesn't... he'll lose his friend. His only friend. His _best_ friend. And, if he's truly honest with himself, someone who, over the many centuries, has become _much more_ to him.

But he'll never admit that. _Never_.

“Crowley.” His voice is soft and low. “I-I'm going to try something, and I'm not sure it's going to work, but... I have to _try_.”

“Okay.” Crowley is shivering, his face burning with fever-sickness.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and Lays Hands on the demon.

_Fly under the radar. Big miracles will be noticed. The small ones, if you can account for them... those you can slip past their scrutiny. So, knuckle down, focus deep. Here, a ruptured blood vessel. There, a pocket of infection. Here, a pool of bile. There, stagnant blood. Tiny, infinitesimally small miracles, to knit, to purify, to set right. Not too far, not too much, just enough that the body can heal itself. Nudge the cells, convince them to rejoin their fellows, oust the invaders, purge the poison._

He has no idea how long it takes. Time loses all meaning when you're focused microscopically, moving so slowly, seeing so deep.

When he finally sits back on his heels there's a throbbing pain behind his eyes. His hands are shaking, covered with blood both old and new. It takes him a moment to open his eyes, to risk focusing on Crowley's shivering form.

The wounds are open, but not deep. The skin is pink, but not flushed with angry red. The stink of infection lingers in the air, but there's no sign of it in the flesh. The blood that still oozes sluggishly from the wounds is bright red and healthy. Aziraphale sighs deeply.

“Angel?” Crowley's voice is rusted shut, dry and creaking.

“It's all right. You're going to be all right.” Aziraphale pronounces this with certainty.

Aziraphale sluices the blood from his hands, wiping them clean as best he can on the blanket, before stripping off his dusty jacket and waistcoat to allow the sweat to evaporate from his shaking body. There's morphine in the medic's kit, and antibiotics. He administers both, as best he can, with trembling hands. The wounds need stitches, but he's not sure he can bring himself to take a needle and drive it through the quivering, living flesh, drag the thread through, tug it taut... He shudders and settles instead for packing and dressing the wounds.

“Come on, now, let's get you up and get some water into you.”

There's a flicker of interest on Crowley's pale face, before his brow collapses in a pained frown.

“Not sure I can get up...”

“It's all right, I'll... let me.” Aziraphale loops his arm around Crowley's shoulders and pulls. He sits up slowly, with a grimace and a hiss. His head lolls, chin almost to his chest, as if the act of sitting up has drained the last of his energy. Aziraphale presses the cup to his lips, and he gulps greedily at the water before allowing his cheek to rest on the angel's shoulder with a shuddering sigh.

“Well now, let's get you lying back down then, hmm?”

“Not yet.” The words are a breath, a plea. Crowley is relaxing now, as the morphine does its work. He leans on the angel, brings his arm up behind him to grip a fistful of the pale shirt, clinging on for dear life. Aziraphale sighs, a trembling, treacherous sound, and grants himself the luxury of holding and of being held. He's never allowed himself this indulgence before, and he knows that Crowley would never normally tolerate it, would shy away, skittish and snappish. He's weak, they both are, but for different reasons. Aziraphale leans his head to brush his cheek across the crown of the demon's head, permits himself the moment, revels in the feeling of the soft strands of auburn-flame hair on his chin, his cheek, slipping past his mouth. He draws the fragrance into his nose, expensive grooming products and sweat and cologne, smoke and a hint of something herbal he's never been able to place. He knows the scent of the demon, has known it for so long, but never before has he buried his nose in it and _inhaled_ , drawn the bouquet deep into his lungs. He wants to open his mouth to it, taste it on his tongue, gulp it down, hold it in his chest.

Crowley's head tilts, his nose bumps the angel's jaw, and he presses his fever-hot mouth to the pale throat. Aziraphale can't help dragging a gasp of air at the touch, the soft heat of Crowley's mouth on his skin sinking deep into him, hot and electric and _dangerous_.

“No...” He moans, a broken sound. “Crowley... Crowley, _don't_.”

“Angel.” Crowley mouths the word into his skin, his breath searing, burning with intent.

“My dear, _please,_ not now, not... not like this.”

He has to be strong, for both their sakes. He turns, jerks his head away. Crowley huffs in annoyance, but allows Aziraphale to lower him back onto the mattress. He curls his lip with a grunt of pain as he stretches his legs out to lie flat.

“This dream is crap.”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow as he turns to begin tidying the medical supplies away.

“Crap. This dream. Not supposed to go like that. Usually in my dreams you're all... all eager, and-and, what's the word? _Pliant_. Yeah, pliant. I like that word. _Pliant_.”

Aziraphale freezes, his hands hovering over bandages and pill packets. Crowley thinks he's dreaming. Delirious with fever, addled with painkillers. _Perhaps it's easier like this, hearing him say these things. Admitting his... desires._ Crowley isn't looking at him, his unfocused too-bright eyes are fixed on the ceiling as he rambles.

“Those are the _best_ dreams, angel. The ones where I kiss you until you're giddy, until you can't stand it. Sometimes I dream about, like, I'm in your shop, right, and-and I just pick you up and throw you on your desk and just _go for you_ and you're all soft and warm and-and...”

“Crowley, stop.” Aziraphale's voice is a croak, mouth dry. _Crowley dreams about me..._

“Or-or I get you up to my flat, yeah? And I finally get all your clothes off, and drag you into bed, and I get to do all that... _human_ stuff, all grunting and sweating...” Crowley's gaze is distant, and he waves his hand vaguely.

“Please stop talking.” _Crowley dreams about me... intimately..._

“The _best_ dreams, angel, the _best._ I dream about what you'd look like when you come, what you'd sound like. I figure you'd make the same face you made when you first ate a mango, I remember that, you said it was the _best_ thing, and your eyelids went all fluttery and you made this _noise_ , and I reckon you'd make that face and that noise if I touched you right, if I...”

“ _Crowley_ , for heaven's sake _stop!_ ” Aziraphale claps his hands over his burning face and wishes fervently that he could erase his own memory. _Crowley dreams about me... GRAPHICALLY._

“This dream is rubbish.” It's a petulant whine, and it doesn't suit Crowley's voice at all. “Why are you being so... _you?_ I feel _fantastic_ right now, did I tell you that? All floaty. Whee! But-but, at least it's not one of the _other_ dreams, you know, with the fire, and the screaming...”

“Oh, Crowley, _please_ stop talking!” Aziraphale turns to look at him, beseeching with his gaze.

“'S why I can never tell you, not _ever._ ” Crowley brings one hand up, wavering and unsteady, to press a long thin finger to his lips. “Can't tell you. Coz, right, if I tell you, and you like it, then-then you might Fall... and I-I can't... I can't do that to you, not my angel, so I'll never tell you, not ever. I _hate_ that dream. I still remember. Burning feathers smell like shit. Watching you suffer... Not _you_ , not because of me, not _ever_ , so I'll never tell. Fucking, fuck. Love you, though. Stupid really. Sssshhh.”

His arm drops limply to his side and his head rolls lax, spilt-burgundy hair clinging to his shining face.

Aziraphale gapes at him, mouth hanging open in astonishment.

“Oh, _Crowley..._ ”

“Sssshhh!” Crowley hushes him, tossing his head on the pallet in an emphatic gesture.

There's a moment of silence as Aziraphale turns his burning face away to fuss with the medic's kit, tidying it away to give his hands something to do while his mind whirls. He begins to speak almost without thought, because now there's a gaping empty silence, and he feels he has to fill it.

“Y-you know, I... I've dreamed about it, too. I mean, I don't dream, because I don't sleep, so I suppose you'd call them daydreams, but... Well, it's all so, so _complicated!_ Not-not the actual... um, that is to say, I'm aware of the mechanics, but...” He sits back on his heels, pointedly not looking at Crowley. “I don't think I'd Fall. I'm sure I would have Fallen already, if I were supposed to, for thinking... But I have a _duty_ , and a sacred one at that. I can't abandon everything for the sake of-of... well, whatever this is, between us. Do you know, when I went back yesterday, I hoped that Sami had died, because if he were still alive... I-I feared I might kill him myself, for what he did to you... Oh, what are you _doing_ to me Crowley, to make me doubt so?” His back bows, his hands clench on his knees. “That I would even _think_ of forsaking my duty! But you were here, and you were _so hurt_ , and I-I knew I had to come back, because i-if you were discorporated, and I hadn't done anything, well... I'd never forgive myself. You... you really are the dearest thing to me, Crowley. And... I think really, if I'm being honest, I... I think I...”

He turns to look at Crowley, to look him in the eye when he says the words that are hammering in his heart, crowding his throat, battering at the back of his teeth.

Crowley is asleep. He's drooling slightly, his face unlined and smooth in the absence of pain. He looks almost young. Almost innocent.

“Well, bugger.” Aziraphale whispers.

Postscript

“So you _really_ don't remember _anything?”_

“Angel, if you ask me that _one more time_ I swear I will lick the first page...”

“Crowley...”

“... of every Milton first edition...”

“Oh, _Crowley!”_

“... that you own, so _stop asking!”_

Aziraphale slumped back, defeated, toying idly with the glass in front of him.

They were in the executive lounge at the airport, drinking complimentary champagne, eating complimentary pretzels, and looking forward to finally flying home. Crowley was occupying himself by idly flicking complimentary dry roasted peanuts into the pockets of anxious businessmen. Aziraphale fidgeted in his seat, uncomfortable and far too aware. Of everything.

“Anyway...” The demon drawled, leaning back in his chair, “Whatever happened to your man, what's-his-name?”

“Sami.” Aziraphale's cheeks colored as a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Yes, um, well...”

“Well what?” Crowley's head tilted, the hint of yellow-gold eyes over the top of designer shades.

“Well... he was killed. In the attack, that _your_ side...”

“HA!” Crowley thumped the table in triumph, peanuts scattering. “Score one for me! Okay, I nearly died, but it was _worth_ it, so shove it, you smug halo-wearing git! Hang on, why _do_ you look so smug?”

“Perhaps you should see for yourself.” Aziraphale produced the local newspaper with a quirk of his eyebrow, and Crowley snatched it from his hands and scanned the front page rapidly.

“Local freedom fighter... tragic, blah blah blah... brother vowed to fight on... martyred.... Wait, MARTYRED?”

He threw the paper onto the table between them and buried his head in his hands with a groan.

Aziraphale patted his arm sympathetically.

“There, there. Perhaps you'll get the next one.”

“Bollocks to it. Bollocks to you. Bollocks.”

“Come along now, I think I hear them calling our flight.”

After

It was all too easy for Aziraphlae to fall back into his customary role. All too easy to pretend that it hadn't happened, that he had never borne witness to feelings given voice that would spell their doom. Because that's what it would mean, he was sure, if they were to admit this.

Crowley was terrified that Aziraphale would Fall. That much was clear. And, although the angel didn't share the same fear, the thought of Hell's retribution upon a demon who would dare to collude with an angel? It didn't bear thinking about.

So he didn't.

He didn't think about every lingering glance, every loaded phrase. Although he would be lying if he said that he didn't imagine Crowley's smooth, dark voice in his ear, murmuring 'Angel, angel, I love you, fuck, I want to see your face when you come...' when he leaned back into the plush cushions of his sofa and gripped himself, hips bucking and mind lost to the fantasy. He wondered, sometimes, in the darkest part of the night, whether Crowley was doing the same.

And then Crowley 'phoned him out of the blue, and suddenly there was the very real prospect that they might lose it all. All of it. Clandestine dinners, nights spent drinking and debating, casual walks in the park... all of it, to be swept away.

Aziraphale lost count of the number of times he opened his mouth, only to bite back the words before they could leap forth and destroy them both. To be given this knowledge (to be given the love of a demon, who would have ever _dreamed_ of such a thing?!), and to be unable to act, unable to reciprocate? Almost unbearable. His heart broke a little more each day, as he watched Crowley tenderly care for the small child who may become their doom.

His heart broke again, and again and again, the closer they came to annihilation. Because who was he to go against the will of God, the Ineffable Plan? It was in his very soul. To throw over the rule of Heaven and gallivant off to the stars with a demon? Unthinkable. And so he broke his heart, and Crowley's, again. And again. And again.

And then... then there was a chance. An outstretched hand. 'You can stay at my place.' And, for once in six thousand years, perhaps the timing was right. Perhaps now they could untangle this mess, and work out what all of this meant. For both of them.

Instead, terror bled into their every word, their every move. Heaven and Hell would be coming for them, and they had to work out how to evade their punishments.

Perhaps afterwards, Aziraphale reasoned, they could sort out everything else.

Post-apocalyptic

Dinner at the Ritz was everything they had hoped it would be.

Until it wasn't.

“I'm _so_ glad we get to share this,” Aziraphale says, giddy on champagne and relief.

The dining room is full of life; murmured conversations, the gentle clinking of cutlery, the occasional muted laugh. The sounds of the world turning, just as it always has.

“Yeah. Could've been different. I mean...” Crowley shrugs one lean shoulder, gathers his courage, “... we might not have made it.”

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale reaches across the table, places his palm flat on the white cotton. “I think we were always destined to end up here.”

“Well... I had hoped.” Crowley's face wrinkles, as if tasting something bitter, unpalatable. The thought of them not being here, now, like this. Unpalatable. Unimaginable. Well, almost. “There was a while there where I thought... Well, you know.”

“I can't say that I do.” The hand retreats as Aziraphale sits back, emotions flickering across his face; uncertainty, amusement, confusion, hope.

“I thought that... Angel, I thought you were _dead_.”

“... Oh.”

Crowley's face is set, eyes obscured under tinted glass, jaw thrust forward.

“That's it? That's all you've got to say? 'Oh'?”

“Well, I mean... I'm _dreadfully_ sorry that you had to go through that, it must have been simply _awful_.”

“The _worst_ , angel. You have no...” Crowley swallows hard and swigs champagne, half-choked on effervescence and anxiety, and the memory of utter terror and wrenching grief. “Your bookshop. Fire everywhere, and you... just gone. And I thought, I _really_ thought...”

“Just like your dream! Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale's face softens.

“...What?” The demon's champagne flute is half-way to his parted lips, his mouth slack.

“The... the dream... you told me that...” Aziraphale's face pales, and then flushes with heat. “I-I-I mean, I should _imagine_ that it was terribly distressing, to-to find...”

“That's not what you said, angel.” Crowley has gone cold, frozen, sharp. His voice is clipped and harsh, jaw working as he sets his glass down too hard, a sharp _flack_ that cracks like a gunshot in the quiet dining room. “A dream, _my_ dream. How do you know about my dreams?”

Aziraphale laughs, and he means for it to be light and airy and carefree, but instead it's too shrill, too forced.

“Well, you probably said something while you were drunk, forgot about it the next morning, wine does that to a body, I'm sure I've said many a thing that...”

“I-I would never... not _that_. Ang... _Aziraphale._ Tell me the truth, _right now_.”

There's a vicious light in the shaded eyes, a suspicion of bared teeth, the hint of a snarl, and Aziraphale cowers slightly before it.

“W-well... Um, you recall that, um, around the nineteen-eighties, we both went to the Middle East...”

“Still got the scars.” Crowley's voice grates. “Get to the point.”

“Um, yes, well, uh, you were... really, terribly sick, and-and feverish, and I had to give you medicine, and I'm sure you weren't quite aware of what was going on, um...”

“ _Angel._ ” A single word, a growled warning. Aziraphale cringes nervously, bow tie bobbing over his pale throat as he gulps vintage Krug as if it's water.

“W-well, you said afterwards that you didn't remember, and I didn't want to bring it up, because you said that you never would have told me, I mean if you were in your right mind, so I simply assumed that it would be better if I didn't mention it...”

“ _Tell me what I said._ ” Crowley's voice is low and lethal, the words clipped and forced between gritted teeth.

“Well, uh, you said, and you were delirious, mind, _quite_ out of it, um, you said that you had dreamed about, um, us, and, ah, in a c-carnal sense, and that you feared that it may lead to me, um, Falling, you know, and that you-you, um...”

“ _What?”_ The word is flat and hard, a thrown stone of a word, and it glances off the angel's ribcage and makes his heart stutter.

“You... you said that you loved me. And, and I tried to tell you, that of-of course I loved you as well, but, um... Well.”

The silence that follows lasts a thousand years, and no time at all. It's the time between heartbeats, between breaths. The time it takes for a particle of light to travel from _here_ to _here_. It's all of time, and no time at all. It's a silence of broken promises and lies.

Crowley breaks it, breaks the moment and his glass and nearly everything on the table with one wide, explosive sweeping swing of his arm. The angel cries out in horror at the sheer aggressiveness of the act. The demon has never lost control like this before him, and it's terrifying. Aziraphale almost doesn't hear the noises of shock and surprise from the humans around them, lost as he is in the violence of the action. Crowley is shoving himself up from the table, his chair toppling to the floor.

“Crowley! Crowley, _please!_ ”

“Fuck this! _Fuck you!_ ” The demon throws the words back over his shoulder as he stalks away. The angel throws himself out of his seat and darts after him, calling his name, as the patrons gape and exclaim and the staff scurry around them, and Crowley's almost out of the door when Aziraphale catches his sleeve.

“Crowley, _please..._ ”

The demon snarls and jerks his arm from the angel's grip, hurling himself out into the street and towards the waiting Bentley.

“Please, I'm so sorry, you have no idea...”

“All this time!” Crowley stops, his hand on the door handle, glaring back. “You knew, you bloody _knew,_ and you never said a word! The end of the world, angel, the end of _everything,_ and you...”

“Well, I rather think that we had more important things...”

“What would it have taken, angel, huh? What were you waiting for?”

“Well, the right time, I suppose, but...”

“And you didn't think that 'the right time' might have been, oh, sometime _before_ the apocalypse?” Crowley is livid, shaking with anger, face flushed and contorted, ugly with rage and bitterness. Aziraphale's hands clench into fists at his sides.

“Do you imagine that it's been any easier for me? That I've been sitting back smugly with this knowledge, hoarding it? I was _terrified!_ Do you have any _idea_ what Hell would have done to you if they knew? Or what Heaven would have done to me? I _couldn't_ , Crowley, I couldn't do it.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Crowley's hand falls away from the car door and he stalks towards the angel, teeth bared. “Oh, I'm sorry, am I meant to apologize to you, because I _burdened_ you with this? Well, excuse _me_ if I don't grovel at your feet, _angel,_ because you were too worried about pleasing your boss to let me know that I wasn't alone, that someone gave a shit about me, because you didn't make it _FUCKING CLEAR ENOUGH!_ ”

“I have made it _abundantly_ clear that I care about you, on multiple occasions!” Aziraphale's eyes are bright and hard as ice, high points of color sitting on his cheeks like bruises.

“You turned me down! You pushed me away, again and again!” Crowley's crowding him, invading his space, teeth grinding, lips pulled back. “You lied to me, hid from me...”

“As if it were in my power to pause the end of the world and say 'by the way dear, I rather think I love you, let's nip off for a spot of tea'!” There's a muscle twitching in Aziraphale's jaw, his nails are digging into his palms. “Don't you _dare_ suggest that I didn't care for you enough, that I didn't do what I could to show you that I loved you, in whatever way that I could.”

“But you _never_ _said it._ ” Crowley's voice drops to a lethal hiss. “Not once. Not even when we went to each others' deaths, when I had to send you to Hell and I didn't know if I'd ever see you again, and all I could think was 'I wish he loved me as much as I love him'. And you knew, you _fucking knew,_ and you didn't say it, you _coward._ ”

“How _dare_ you accuse me of cowardice?” Aziraphale's chest heaves, his voice harsh. “I didn't say it, that much is true, but I walked into _Hell_ for you! And I would do it again, you _stupid_ man, if I thought it would prove _anything_ to you!”

“Well then, you do that, angel.” Crowley sneers. He snaps his head round and his body follows. “Go to Hell.” He's at the car, unlatching the door, folding his lean form behind the wheel.

Aziraphale watches, standing in the road, as fat raindrops begin falling from the sky and the Bentley pulls away and roars down the street.

And so, here we are.

Here is an angel. A real one, a Principality no less. The guardian of the Eastern Gate of the Garden of Eden has been living amongst the humans since the very beginning. He is a soldier, a protector, a rebel, a traitor.

He doesn't look like any of these things. Too soft around the edges, all curves and curls. He likes good food and expensive wine and old books. He's fussy, and frumpy, and old-fashioned. But look underneath, find the burning soul within the comfortingly gentle exterior, uncover the iron-hard will, the steely determination, the granite hardness of certainty.

He's currently slumped in an ancient, overstuffed armchair, cradling a cold cup of cocoa and staring at an open book resting on his knees that he has been failing to read for the last hour. His eyes are clouded and troubled, and there's a line of worry between his brows, his lips pursed in a moue of confused annoyance.

His annoyance is due, in part, to the fact that he is indeed an angel. If he were Steve from Hull, or Yvonne from Scunthorpe, then things would, he thought, be an awful lot more simple.

But he's not. He is Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden.

Or at least, he used to be.

There is no Eden, not anymore. And he was never much cop at the whole guarding part of the job anyway. And, since the end of the world hadn't actually ended with the end of the world, and he has escaped the fate of total annihilation, he doesn't have much actual angel-ing to do any more.

It's not a bad thing, as far as he is concerned. He has more time now for reading, and popping out to little restaurants, and ferreting through antiques shops. But he had rather hoped that he would also have had a little more time with his...

Friend. Best friend. Co-conspirator. Enemy. Soulmate.

Well.

He had managed to cock that up quite spectacularly.

Here is a demon. A real one, a favored denizen of the underworld. The Serpent of Eden has been living amongst the humans since the very beginning. He is a tempter, a beguiler, a rebel, a traitor.

Unlike the aforementioned angel, this demon absolutely resembles all of these traits. His twisting hips speak of earthly delights, his face inscrutable behind dark glasses all the better for lying through. He likes loud music, fast cars, and alcohol. He's sleek, and sinuous, and cutting-edge. But peel back the layers, peer through the sharpness, the cool aloof exterior, and find a demon who's always been a little tender, just a mite too caring, a whisper of softness.

He's currently sprawled over an extremely ostentatious throne-like chair, cradling a tumbler of incredibly expensive whisky and staring unseeing at whatever is on the enormous television that's bolted to the wall in his grey, minimalist flat. He's scowling, mouth drawn tight and down in anger and frustration.

His frustration is due, in part, to the fact that he is indeed a demon. If he were Janet from Bournemouth, or Kevin from Romford, then things would, he thought, be a lot more simple.

But he's not. He is Crowley, demon, the creator of original sin, serpent of Eden.

Or, at least, he used to be.

There is no Eden, not anymore. And, since the end of the world hadn't actually ended with the end of the world, and he has escaped the fate of total annihilation, he doesn't have much actual demon-ing to do. It's not a bad thing, as far as he is concerned. He has more time now, for drinking, and driving his car at dangerous speeds through central London, and expanding his music collection. But he had rather hoped that he would also have had a little more time with his...

Friend. Best friend. Co-conspirator. Enemy. Soulmate.

Well.

He had managed to fuck that up quite spectacularly.

Two days. Two days of unremitting rain, incessant thunder and crushing loneliness.

Two days of guilt, and bitter self-recrimination.

Two days of 'what if' and 'I wish I'd' and 'why didn't I' and 'I shouldn't have'.

Two days should feel like a drop in the ocean, when you've been on earth for six thousand years.

Two days feels like forever.

Aziraphale has yet another mug of cocoa rapidly going cold in his hands when the sound of someone knocking on the door rouses him from his self-accusatory stupor.

“We're closed!” He calls firmly. The shop has been closed for the last two days, and will remain closed, as far as he's concerned, until he's worked out just what he's going to do to rectify this awful situation, this corner that he's painted himself into.

The knock sounds again, and the angel swings his head irritably to look at the door, where the sign he was sure he had flipped forty-eight hours ago has spun around. He grimaces and flicks his hand, spinning the sign so that the outside world knows that this shop is very definitely and most emphatically closed, and turns his attention, such as it is, back to the book in front of him on the desk.

The knock comes again. 'Shave and a hair-cut'. Such a cliché. Aziraphale looks again at the door, where the sign is _now_ proclaiming to the universe at large that the shop, despite the fact that it is seven forty-three in the evening, is indeed open. He glares at the sign and waves his hand to flip it around.

It immediately flips back.

“Crowley,” The angel breathes, already half out of his seat.

The knock comes again 'tap tap-tap-tap tap” but it seems hesitant, and the angel is determined not to allow the being on the other side of that door another moment to doubt whether or not he is welcome, and uses a swift jerk of his hand and a burst of angelic power to unlock the door.

“Two bits!” He shouts, as if it isn't the stupidest thing that's ever left his mouth, and he's up and out of the chair and moving to the door and the cocoa is tumbling to the floor and soaking into the rug as the handle moves and the door opens.

“Angel?”

“I'm here.”

The rain hammers down, unrelenting. The demon is standing in the doorway, drenched.

He had thought about flowers, chocolates, jewelry, wine. No gift seemed enough, nothing sufficiently encompassed the depth of feeling that he wished to express, and so here he stands, empty-handed and rain-soaked, in the doorway of the bookshop.

He knew that the angel would never press him, would allow him his space, and he thanked him for it. If Aziraphale had called, pestered, nagged or niggled, then he would have backed away, shying from the touch, the word, the thought. And so he had to be the one to reach out, to try and bridge the gap, to say 'I am still here, and I still need you'.

“I'm sorry.”

The word, the thought, the intent, so simultaneous, that neither could be sure who spoke out loud first. Not that it mattered, of course, they're not trying to one-up each other in some bizarre scrabble for supremacy of supplication.

It's Aziraphale who blinks first.

“Oh, for goodness' sake, come inside, you're positively _drenched!_ ”

He doesn't reach out and grab Crowley's arm to pull him into the shop. He merely moves to one side, creating space, leaving an escape if necessary.

Crowley ducks his head as he enters, rain running from his hair as he slips through the doorway and into the shop, eyes darting furtive glances behind darkened glass.

“Look at you, my dear, you're soaked to the skin! Did you walk here?”

There's nothing but gentle concern in Aziraphale's voice, softness in his eyes. Crowley shrugs.

“Nah, drove, just... took a while to knock.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

The fondness in Aziraphale's voice is palpable, and Crowley fights to stop his lip from curling. Centuries of habit are going to be hard to break. He wants it, he does, the fondness, the kindness, even if it goes against millennia of conditioning.

“I've been a bit of a knob,” He mumbles.

For his part, Aziraphale doesn't take the bait. It would be so easy to say 'A bit?' and for this to devolve into another evening of sniping at each other in mock sallies. Time to break the habits of several thousand lifetimes.

“I think, perhaps, so have I.”

The demon drips rainwater onto the polished wood floor, face averted. The angel stares intently at the puddle slowly forming before shaking himself from his nervous musings.

“Well. How about you dry off and I'll get us something to drink?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Aziraphale flashes him a swift, tight smile, like the sun peeking out between clouds, before turning and bustling away to the back of the shop. Crowley watches his retreating back for a moment before shivering like a horse shaking off a fly. He snaps his arm up and the rain boils away from his clothes in a brief cloud of superheated steam. He drags his hands through his hair, vapor curling between his fingers as he lopes forward, following in the angel's wake.

Aziraphale is opening a bottle of wine and, as Crowley slumps onto the sofa, there's a satisfying ' _thock_ ' as the cork leaves the neck of the bottle. The angel hums appreciatively as he pours the deep ruby liquid into two glasses and hands one off to the demon, who makes a soft noise of thanks. Aziraphale takes his seat across from the slouching demon and swirls the wine thoughtfully.

“Well,” He says.

“Yup.”

Aziraphale pouts lightly and sips. Crowley frowns. The quiet that descends is no longer the easy silence of companionship, but the heavy pressing hush that precedes a storm.

“Right.” Crowley smacks one hand to his knee decisively, with a sound like a whip crack, and sets his glass down on the side table. It clatters slightly, his hand shaking. “Fine. I'll go first.” He draws breath, sits up. “I'm sorry, okay? I've bollocksed it all up, and I'm sorry. I should have told you ages ago, about, well, everything. But I didn't and then I overreacted. I'm sorry I ruined dinner, I'm sorry I stormed off, and I-I'm sorry I expected you to do the hard work. So, there it is.”

He slumps back into the cushions and snatches up his glass, draining it in a single gulp.

Aziraphale opens his mouth, then closes it again with a snap, before passing the bottle. Crowley takes it gratefully and refills his glass with trembling hands.

“Sorry,” He mumbles. “Demon. Not used to the whole...” He waves the bottle vaguely. “Feelings... thing.”

“Quite all right,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Perfectly understandable.” He takes the bottle back and tops up his own glass. “I'm sorry too, you know, dreadfully so. I've spent so long avoiding this, these feelings, and, well, the... consequences. But, I _do_ love you, most terribly. And, I... well, I apologize for not telling you sooner. It's just, I've been so _dreadfully_ frightened.”

“Yeah, me too. And-and if it's too much, if you want to go back to where we were, then that's okay, really...”

“Oh, my dear boy, as if we _could_!” Aziraphale's face softens. “I'm afraid the cat's rather out of the bag.”

“Can't we...” Crowley squirms. “Put the cat back _in_ the bag?”

“Have _you_ ever tried to make a cat do anything it doesn't want to do?” Aziraphale quirks his eyebrow.

“Yup. Nasty, scratchy, bitey.” Crowley grimaces and gulps wine. “See your point.”

“Precisely. I'm sorry Crowley, you're just going to have to let me make love to you.”

Crowley narrowly avoids inhaling his Pinot Noir.

“Wh-n-bu-” He splutters, face as crimson as the wine. “Angel, you can't just _say_ stuff like that!”

“Why not? It _is_ what I intend to do, after all.” Aziraphale wiggles happily in his seat. “I'm rather looking forward to it, in fact.”

“I... Well, yeah, I mean, yes! Me too!” Crowley's shoulders begin to relax from their position somewhere up around his ears. “I-I mean, I've... Bless, angel, I've thought about it for... didn't know if you'd be...” he flips his hand at the angel, “interested in that sort of thing.”

“Oh my dear, of _course_ I am! Just think...” Aziraphale beams. “We can go to the pictures, and I can bring you flowers, and-and write you poetry! I think courting will be marvelous fun!”

“C-courting?”

“Why, yes! I mean, I suppose one is supposed to court for a while _before_ declaring one's love, but we _have_ been rather dancing around the issue for some time. Yes, I'm _very_ much looking forward to making love to you.”

“A-Aziraphale...” Crowley's face twitches, his eyes unreadable behind the sunglasses. “That phrase... doesn't mean what you think it means.”

“Oh? Oh.” The angel is suddenly uncertain. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No! No. Just...” Crowley slumps back. “Don't worry about it.”

“Oh, but my dear boy, you must tell me!” He sits forward, wide-eyed face earnest under the mop of dandelion-clock hair. “Have I offended you?”

“It's fine, angel. It's... Well, words change meaning, and, um...” He swigs his wine carelessly to hide his embarrassment. “Making love implies... well, sex.”

“Oh!”

“Yeah. Sorry. Not that I _want..._ I mean, I _do_ want to do the-the movies and stuff...”

“Goodness, how gauche of me!” Aziraphale puts a hand to his lips. “Well, silly me for blurting something like that out. Of _course_ I want to have sex with you, although I wasn't really intending to announce the fact over drinks.”

“Look, it's fine... Wait, what?”

“Sex! With you. And, well, me. Unless you don't...”

“No!” Crowley sits up. “I mean, yes, I do! With you. The... sex... thing. Yes!”

“Splendid!” Aziraphale beams. He sets his glass down firmly, and crosses the space between them with swift determined strides before dropping onto the sofa next to the startled demon, who makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“Everything all right?” The angel asks, curling one hand around Crowley's knee and using the other to pluck the wineglass from the startled demon's hand and set it aside.

“Gnrk.”

Aziraphale studies the demon's face for a moment; the high points of color on the sharp cheekbones, the trembling lips.

“Can I take off your glasses? You really do have such _beautiful_ eyes.”

“Yuh.”

When Aziraphale does so, the eyes underneath the tinted lenses are wide and shocked, almost panicked, the brows arched high in astonishment. He frowns as he drops the sunglasses onto the end table.

“Are you _quite_ sure you're all right?”

“Do...” Crowley's eyes dart nervously as his tongue flicks out to wet his lips. “Do you wanna do it... _now_? Here?”

“Well...” The angel is taken aback, wrong-footed. He had half expected the demon to be all over him already, all wry smiles and sultry looks. “Not necessarily. I was thinking more along the lines of a... a kiss. That's how these things... normally start, isn't it?”

“Yes! Yes, okay, yes.”

Crowley doesn't move. His eyes are flicking rapidly over Aziraphale's face, taking it in, never settling too long in one place. The angel smiles, runs his knuckles over the other's jaw before cupping his cheek in his palm.

“Okay,” Crowley breathes, eyes fluttering shut as he leans into the touch. Aziraphale closes the gap between them and presses their lips together.

He's always surprised by Crowley. Whenever he thinks he's got him all worked out, the demon does something totally unexpected. How is it, the angel wonders, that someone so sharp and cool, so aloof, could become so soft and yielding at the mere brush of his mouth?

Crowley _melts._ It's as if he's forgotten his human body and is trying to once more become a serpent. Aziraphale makes an appreciative noise in his throat as he draws back, and when Crowley opens his eyes they're full of wonder, and desperate hunger.

“Angel,” He sighs and brings one trembling long-fingered hand up to run into the wild white-blonde curls.

“My dear.” Aziraphale answers, his voice husky. Before Crowley can answer the angel is on his mouth again, nudging with his lips, asking without words. Crowley's arms prickle with goosebumps as he opens his mouth and tilts his head, and _He's kissing me, Christ on a bike, he's_ _ **actually**_ _kissing me ohshitohshitohshit_

Aziraphale leans into his body, one hand curling around the back of Crowley's neck, the other resting on a leg which, he realizes, is shivering under his hand, the heel drumming a rapid tattoo on the floor. Crowley's hands are everywhere, fluttering like butterflies, eager to touch and explore as their mouths move together, hot and hungry. Aziraphale sighs through his nose in wordless appreciation as he slips his tongue into the mix experimentally and Crowley _whines_ into his mouth.

“Well,” Aziraphale murmurs as he draws back. “Good to know I haven't lost my touch.” He flashes the demon a coy look from under lowered lashes.

“Touch... lost... what?” Crowley looks dazed, his cheeks flushed with heat, the whites of his eyes gone, replaced with yellow-gold.

“Well, it's been a while, I was a little worried I'd be out of practice.” Aziraphale leans in to mouth at the demon's neck, and Crowley makes a keening sound.

“What was their name?” The demon croaks.

“Who?” Aziraphale is doing his best to suck a love-bite into Crowley's throat, and it's making his head spin, but _jealousy_ is something he's known for centuries, and it runs particularly close to the surface when it comes to one particular angel.

“What was their name? The one you did this with... before?”

“Which one?” Aziraphale's nimble hands are busying themselves with the buttons on Crowley's waistcoat when he's astonished to find his wrists gripped in clawing, vice-like fingers.

“Crowley!” He yelps, astonished. He lurches back, shocked at the intensity of the gaze that's being laid upon him, the demon's eyes scorching.

“You've done this before.” Crowley hisses. “When? How many times?”

Aziraphale huffs a weak laugh. “Oh, well, quite a few, I suppose. Six thousand years is an awfully long...”

“How many?” Crowley looks almost feral, and the angel fights not to cringe.

“Y-you can't expect me to keep a tally! I'm sure _you've_ lost count of the number of kisses...”

“Just the one, angel.”

Aziraphale is struck dumb. _Surely not... All these years, how can he have not?_

“My... my dear, you must be _joking_! You're... I mean, you tempt people, that's your _job!_ ”

“Yes, _tempt,_ angel! If they got what they wanted, it wouldn't be a temptation!”

“But-but... you're a _demon!”_ As soon as the words leave his lips, he regrets them.

“Oh. Oh, of course!” Crowley's mouth twists, baring his teeth in a hideous parody of a sneer. “I'm a demon, yes, so that means I've been _whoring_ myself, slutting my way through the centuries...”

“I _never_ said that!” Aziraphale jerks his wrists from Crowley's grip. “Don't put words in my mouth!”

“What else have you had in your mouth, eh?” Crowley's voice is a low dangerous hiss. “Here I was, worrying myself to shreds about causing you to Fall to lust, and you were busy shagging your way around London!”

“How _dare_ you, I've done nothing of the sort!” Aziraphale draws himself up, face flushed with righteous indignation. “If I lay with anyone it was out of love! It has only ever been an act of kindness and healing, of redemption...”

“So what am I to you? Just another pity fuck?” Crowley's chest is heaving with his ragged breaths. “Gonna try and bonk the evil right out of me, were you?”

“ _Crowley_!” The angel's mouth falls open in shock. “The... the way I feel about you is... so _completely_ different...”

“So you _didn't_ love them, these numerous, nameless others?” The demon bares his teeth.

“Of course I did! The difference is, I'm _in love_ with you!”

“Oh, well, good, _great_ , glad _you_ can make that distinction.” The demon spits the words as he hauls himself up, all his sinuous grace gone, shed like dead skin in the heat of his anger.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale is on his feet too, as Crowley moves away, “Please! Please don't go, I need you to _understand!_ ”

Crowley spins on his heels halfway to the door, flings his arms wide in desperation.

“Understand what, _angel?_ ” And this time the familiar nickname has the sting of mockery.

“I want you to understand what you _mean_ to me! It's... it's not just _physical_ , it goes beyond _love_ , I... Crowley, _please..._ ”

“Show me.” Crowley's arms fall to his sides, but his face is tight, drawn with tension, his mouth a hard line. “ _Show me._ ”

“All right.” Aziraphale is standing, alone and bereft, in the middle of his shop, and Crowley is struck suddenly by how _small_ he seems. The pale head bows, the eyes close, and his soft, clever fingers rise to his breast.

“Crowley.” The angel murmurs. He pushes his fingers against his chest and his fingers twitch as if they're undoing the waistcoat, but what he's opening is nothing that exists in this dimension. He grips and _pulls_ , and what is revealed is blinding white-gold light, and the angel _unfolds._

Crowley refuses to look away, even as his eyes begin to water and the light threatens to blind him. What Aziraphale is becoming is all of himself, everything at once, and the demon will do everything he can to witness it.

The wings unfurl like petals, rising in a graceful arc, and then again, and again, and again, overlapping and intersecting each other and themselves in pearlescent shimmering curves and swoops that defy logic and physics. There's a sound, not so much heard as _felt_ , a low bass thrumming that makes the demon's chest hurt and his ears ring.

Crowley gasps. He can feel it now, as the light washes over him, and he sinks to his knees, unworthy. Love, it's love, so pure and blinding and _burning_ , and it cleanses and purifies even as his darkened soul shrieks for escape. It means him no harm, he knows, because he can feel the intent, the _direction_. All this adoration, all this desire and affection and care, all for _him_ , six thousand years of it, and he bends his spine and presses his forehead to the floor, unworthy.

“ **Crowley**.” It's not a human voice, there are no vocal cords involved, it's inside his soul, and he lifts his head and opens his eyes to let the tears flow freely down his face as he bears witness.

And the angel opens his eyes, and opens his eyes, and opens his eyes, and opens his eyes.

“Crowley? Oh, my dear, are you all right?”

The demon returns to awareness reluctantly. There are points of pressure on his body, but it takes him a while to work out how these are relevant, how they relate to him and his corporeal being.

He's kneeling on the floor, and Aziraphale has his hand behind his head, holding him up and gazing down into his eyes with consternation.

“You love me,” Crowley croaks.

“Yes.” There's the ghost of a laugh in the word. “I've been trying to tell you. I _love_ you, I really _do_.”

Crowley works his dry mouth for a moment.

“My turn.”

“Oh, my dear, there's no need...”

“I want to. I _need_ to.” It's suddenly very important to him that the angel understand, that he knows just what he's letting himself in for. “It's not pretty.”

“You're beautiful,” Aziraphale murmurs. “Nothing could convince me otherwise.”

Crowley shoves himself up with a grimace. He's aching already, skin itching, as if it knows that he's contemplating revealing himself and can't _wait_ to shuck off this miserable human shell. He frowns.

“You might want to step back.”

Aziraphale dutifully moves away, but not so far that he couldn't reach out and touch. Crowley finds that painfully comforting.

“Aziraphale,” He breathes. He puts his hands to his chest and _pushes._

His hands go first, and then his arms, disappearing into the darkness that yawns, suddenly hungry. He opens his mouth and groans as he curls inwards towards himself.

Aziraphale finds himself lurching forwards, unbidden, drawn by the dark heart that opens before him. One of his arms raises involuntarily and he snatches it back to his side.

The demon's wings unfurl and curl, like viciously spiked cogs, rolling in and in and in, an endless wheel of knife-like feathered darkness, pulling, absorbing.

The angel stumbles, almost unable to resist the gravitational pull of this black hole of sin, this boiling emptiness. He's compelled to try and fill it, to allow it to draw him in, until he's jolted to awareness by a multitude of glittering points of light.

“Crowley,” He breathes, leaning in, allowing himself to be drawn close. It's only here, in the heart of the darkness, that he can feel the _want_ , the engulfing, crushing need and lust and covetousness, and all for _him._ The hushing, rushing sound of the feathers blends with the deep thrumming roar of the sucking emptiness in a sound like waves retreating endlessly from a pebble beach.

“ _Aziraphale.”_ The voice twines sinuously through his body, making his nerves dance and sing, waking his flesh into shivering tenderness.

“I see you,” He breathes, reaching both hands out, eager, grasping, needy, towards the glittering myriad galaxies that are laid before him in the vacuum of the demon's roiling soul. He feels the draw of it, the pull, dragging him inwards, enfolding him in tumultuous heat and deep velvet darkness, and the heady sense of being wanted, of being craved, of being _desired_. It's overwhelming, suffocating, but he doesn't feel afraid. He feels _cherished._ He looks into the void and sees _stars._

“Hey, angel? Aziraphale? You okay?”

“Stars. I saw _stars_. Crowley... Oh, my love...”

“Don't worry about that now. How are you feeling?”

Aziraphale smiles beatifically. “Divine.”

He's vaguely aware that Crowley is on his knees with him, has gathered him close and is rocking him, as if he's trying to soothe an anxious child. The angel's hands come up to grip the back of the demon's jacket and hold on for dear life. The sheer strength of feeling in him! Aziraphale swallows dryly.

“Drink?” Crowley asks.

“No.” Aziraphale tilts his head back until he can look the demon in the eyes. “You.”

He feels the lean body shiver against his own as Crowley bends down to press their mouths together, and it's all and everything he needs, to let his love unite with the dragging undertow of lust that the demon is pouring out. He reaches up to grab a hand-full of russet hair and pull their faces closer, crashing their mouths in a desperate attempt to fuse their fractured beings into one.

“Crowley...” Aziraphale gasps in-between frantic scorching kisses, “Perhaps we should take this elsewhere.”

“Right now, right here.” The demon growls, and sets his teeth to worrying the angel's soft neck. Aziraphale's fingers tighten in his hair.

“Absolutely not,” He breathes. “If I had known... There would have been rose petals on the bed for you, my love, and... ah!... candlelight...” He gasps because Crowley's fingernails are digging into the back of his neck and they're suddenly sharp, and it's exhilarating and, he admits to himself, a little frightening.

“Call me that again.” Crowley breathes into his skin, lips peppering the pale throat with kisses and sucking bites.

“My-my love...” The angel twists his head to catch Crowley's earlobe between his teeth, and the demon is crowding him suddenly, dragging their bodies together with a throaty growl.

“Angel, angel...” Crowley's tongue is hot where it traces the tendon in his throat, the demon's hands dragging at his clothes, and Aziraphale is almost overcome.

“My dear, no, not... not yet, not here,” He rasps, voice heavy with desire.

Crowley groans, forces their bodies apart with trembling arms, chest heaving. His topaz eyes are burning, wide and hungry.

“Okay,” He chokes. “Give me a minute.” Aziraphale takes a moment to bask in the heat of the demon's desire, and feels himself blessed. _He's waited so long, and he's willing to wait longer._

“My love, I don't want _you_ to have to wait another moment.” The angel puts both hands to Crowley's chest and pushes him back to lie on the threadbare rug, and then his hands are at the elaborate belt, tugging it open, working at the fly of the jeans.

“Angel...” It's a broken, breathy sound of amazement and confusion, and Aziraphale looks up the demon's long, lean body to meet his eyes.

“Let me, please.” It's not a question, because he knows the answer. Crowley bobs his head in a nod and props himself up on his elbows, and the angel kisses the jut of his hip bones, drags his tongue along the crease between his leg and his pelvis as he eases the trousers down to reveal the thatch of chestnut hair, and then the thick length waiting for his eager mouth. He lavishes it with kisses that leave the demon groaning and panting, before drawing it into the wet heat of his mouth to explore the textures of it with his nimble tongue, mapping the ridges of veins, the gentle shift of soft skin over aching hardness.

Crowley's shaking arms give out and he slumps back, arching his spine with a wordless cry of wonder as his nails scrabble at the wooden floor.

“You said...” He pants at the ceiling, “Said, not now...”

Aziraphale looks up and frees his mouth. “I intend for our first time together to be as lovely as possible. However...” His eyes flick down and he drags his tongue across the swollen head of the demon's cock, making him shudder and groan. “I would also like you to be relaxed. I see no reason why we can't both have what we want.”

“I... I want...” Crowley stutters to a halt as the angel wraps his lips around him again, and it's nothing like he'd imagined it would be, alone in his bed with his cock in his fist. This is wave after wave of pure unadulterated delight, and he puts one hand to his mouth to bite down on his knuckles, and the other on the angel's head.

Aziraphale luxuriates in the sensation of Crowley falling to pieces, shuddering and gasping as his serpentine hips twist and his fingers tangle in the angel's platinum curls. Aziraphale hums approval and the demon shouts his name. Crowley bucks his hips once, twice, three times, and then the angel's mouth is filled with the bitter salt of his lover's ecstasy.

There is an epiphany to be had, in being the deliverer of such exquisite delight, and Aziraphale glories in it, lets it shine in his heart. He is the one who has done this, he is the one who has provided euphoria for the one he loves so well. He draws it into himself, drinks of his lover's delight, and no meal has ever seemed so satisfying, so fulfilling.

“Fu-u-u-ck.” Crowley's breath shudders in his chest and his body jerks with electric aftershocks as the angel kisses the taste of his lust from his sex. “Sorry, sorry, shit...”

“What on _earth_ are you apologizing for, dear?” Aziraphale sits back on his heels, and Crowley raises his head to look up at him. The angel's hair is tousled, his cheeks flushed and lips red, blue eyes bright as diamonds. Crowley swallows hard.

“I... I can last longer, I swear, I'm just...”

Aziraphale laughs. It's not a mocking sound, just a bursting bubble of joy.

“Oh, my love! It doesn't matter to me. I'm quite proud, in fact. Let's consider it a compliment to my technique, shall we?”

Crowley's face cracks into a smile. “Okay. Yeah.” He lets his head fall back to the floor. “I'd give you a round of applause, but I'm not sure where my hands are. I think they might be gone.”

“Still at the ends of your arms, where you left them.” As if to prove it the angel takes them up in his own hands and brings them to his mouth to press kisses to the knuckles. Crowley breathes a laugh.

“Good. I've got plans for those hands.” He sits up abruptly. “Um, did you want me to, uh... return the favour?”

“Oh, I'm in no rush, dear. All being equal I'd quite like to be somewhere a little more comfortable. The floor is playing merry Hell with my knees.”

“I'd _like_ to return the favour.” Crowley is gazing at him with unabashed desire, and Aziraphale feels a warm wave of anticipation wash over him.

“Well then.” Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow. “Upstairs?”

“There's an _upstairs?_ ” Crowley blinks in astonishment. The angel chuckles.

“I own the flat above the shop. Surely you didn't think I _lived_ in the shop?”

“Guess I never really thought about it.”

“Well, mostly I use it for storage...”

“Of _course_ you do.” Crowley rolls his eyes, and Aziraphale tuts.

“For goodness' sake, Crowley! Yes, storage, but I have some rooms for... well, whenever I need them.”

“You never mentioned it before.” The demon's tone is faintly accusatory as he removes his hands from the angel's grip to tuck himself back into his jeans. Aziraphale's cheeks colour and he looks aside.

“Yes, well, I didn't think it was advisable to invite you in the flat... before. I was worried about... well, where that might lead.”

“Fair enough.” Crowley flows to his feet and stretches luxuriously before offering his hand to the angel. “Looks to me like it's leading exactly where you thought.”

“Oh, I _do_ hope so.” Aziraphale's voice is almost a purr as he allows the demon to pull him to his feet.

He spares a moment to enjoy the feel of Crowley's hands in his, before turning and leading him to the back of the shop, where a door opens onto a narrow staircase. Crowley quirks an eyebrow.

“You know, I always just assumed this was a cupboard.”

“Well, now you know. After you.” Aziraphale gestures and Crowley grins insolently.

“You just want to look at my arse.”

“Guilty as charged. Up you go.” Aziraphale reinforces the point by taking a firm handful of said buttocks as the demon brushes past him, and is rewarded with a growl.

“Cheeky.” Crowley looks over his own shoulder back at Aziraphale, his yellow eyes glowing. The angel bestows upon him his most innocent smile, and the demon grins in return before turning away to sashay up the stairs, hips swinging invitingly. Aziraphale bites his lip. This is what he had hoped for. Relieved of tension, reassured of his acceptance, the demon has regained his swagger, his cockiness. This is the Crowley he's been dreaming about for so long, and he follows eagerly in his wake.

Crowley pauses at the top of the stairs, head turning to examine the landing.

“Second on the right, dear.” Aziraphale murmurs as he joins him, running his fingers up the redhead's spine. Crowley shivers and turns, and his yellow eyes are clouded with worry.

“Are you sure?”

“I know where my bedroom is, yes.”

“No, I mean...” Crowley sucks in a breath. “Are you sure about this?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale reaches out and takes hold of his hands. “I am so _very_ sure.”

Aziraphale brushes past him, keeping his grip on Crowley's thin fingers to pull him towards the bedroom.

Once inside, Aziraphale toes off his brogues and shrugs his jacket off onto a chair, before shuffling up onto the bed, settling himself against the wooden headboard. Crowley gazes round the room, in between darting glances at the angel.

It's not a large room, but it's cozy. In décor it much resembles the shop, with shelves lining the walls, books and knick-nacks covering every available surface. An antique brass lamp lights the room with a warm glow, and dimly Crowley can hear the rain pattering on the window. He's faintly surprised he can hear anything over the pounding of his heart.

Taking up the majority of the space is a large wooden bed. It's oak, Crowley thinks, with a tartan rug thrown over the duvet and mounds of pillows, upon which Aziraphale is currently reclining. The angel sets his pocket watch on the side table and looks at him with one eyebrow raised. Crowley swallows.

“'S nice.” He pronounces. “Very... _you._ ”

“Well, thank you.” Aziraphale murmurs, patting the duvet next to him invitingly. Crowley clears his throat and sits on the edge of the bed to yank his boots off and toss them onto the floor, before slithering up to sit next to the angel.

“Uh, so...” Crowley darts a glance at Aziraphale, and then looks away. “What... what do you want to do now?”

“Well my dear, normally such things start with getting undressed.”

“Ngh.” Crowley rakes his eyes over the reclining angel's body. “Yesss. Very... yes.”

“Well, would you care to do the honors?” Aziraphale wriggles back into the pillows happily, and Crowley regards him with thinly veiled astonishment.

“Who are you, and what have you done with my angel?” Crowley breathes. Aziraphale chuckles indulgently.

“Oh, _your_ angel, am I?” He quirks an eyebrow, and Crowley flashes him a feral grin and lunges towards him, nimble fingers deftly tugging his bow tie loose from its knot.

“Mine,” Crowley growls. “My angel, my Aziraphale, yes.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathes, as Crowley's hands skitter down his chest to start unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I'm yours, all yours, my dear, my _darling._ ”

“And I'm yours. So, so yours. Fuck...” Crowley pauses a moment to push his hands under the undone waistcoat, smoothing over his clothed chest. “Y'know, I always thought undressing you would be like unwrapping a present, but there's so many bloody layers...” He hooks a finger under one of Aziraphale's braces and tugs it experimentally. “Bet you're wearing an undershirt too, you bastard.”

“Just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing?” Aziraphale smiles. Crowley grins back.

“Damn right. Bloody hell...” He begins tackling the shirt buttons. “Less like a present, more like a pass-the-parcel. Is there a prize under every layer?”

“Why don't you find out?” Aziraphale purrs. Crowley looks up at him and holds his gaze for a moment, before slowly pushing the velvet waistcoat from his shoulders. In response, Aziraphale reaches out to twine his hand around Crowley's neck and pulls him into a heated kiss, all tongue and teeth. The demon whines in the back of his throat, and Aziraphale pushes him back, his cheeks pink and eyes bright, before shucking his precious antique waistcoat onto the floor.

“Carry on,” The angel murmurs. Crowley swallows hard, and whips the undone bow tie from under his collar, before looking at him expectantly.

“Doesn't qualify as a layer, I'm afraid,” Aziraphale says mildly.

“Fucking _tease,_ ” Crowley whispers, and there's guarded admiration in his voice. He presses his palms into Aziraphale's pectorals and slips the braces over his shoulders, one eyebrow quirking questioningly.

“Still not a layer, dear,” Aziraphale breathes. Crowley groans and attacks his shirt buttons with renewed enthusiasm. There is, indeed, an undershirt, and Crowley snarls with frustration as he peels the shirt away from Aziraphale's chest, only for it to snag at his wrists.

“Cufflinks,” Aziraphale reminds him. Crowley growls again and swings one long leg over the angel's hips to straddle him, whilst his clever fingers fiddle with the delicate jewelry. Aziraphale can't help but press himself up, grinding himself into Crowley with a groan as the shirt finally joins his waistcoat on the floor.

“Prize,” Crowley growls, and lowers himself down to capture the angel's mouth, worrying his lower lip with his front teeth.

“You,” Aziraphale gasps when Crowley releases his mouth. “I-I want to...” He reaches forward to tug at the silver scarf, but Crowley bats his hand away.

“No, wanna see you, all...” Crowley slides his hands beneath Aziraphale's undershirt, gliding along the smooth skin. “ _Fuck,_ all of you, wanna see you.”

Aziraphale raises his arms obligingly, allowing Crowley to tug the undershirt off over his head. The demon's eyes are wide, almost glowing, as he trails his fingers reverently over the angel's milk-white skin. He spends a moment just toying with the soft fluff of downy pale hair on his chest, before Aziraphale squirms pointedly underneath him.

“Now who's being a tease?” Aziraphale husks, his voice gone rough and low with desire. Crowley shivers to hear it, his body thrilling at the undisguised lust in the angel's words.

“Patience is a virtue, angel.” He replies with a smirk, and is rewarded with a sharp smack to his thigh.

“Yes, well, _one_ of us has already had an orgasm,” Aziraphale grumbles, turning the slap to a caress, his hands pressing and kneading Crowley's jean-clad legs where they bracket his hips.

“Mmm. Which reminds me, I was gonna return the favor.” Crowley rolls his hips wickedly just to watch Aziraphale's eyes unfocus, before sliding down to press hot kisses over the angel's chest, flicking his tongue over a pink nipple and then blowing on it to watch it tighten. He slides his hands down over the pale stomach to the waistband of Aziraphale's trousers and begins the torturous task of undoing the button fly.

“Fuck's sake,” He mumbles into Aziraphale's stomach between kisses. “You might as well be wearing a chastity belt.”

“Do you... should I...?” Aziraphale is writhing under him, his chest flushed pink. Crowley presses another kiss into his love's soft skin.

“No, I want to,” he growls, sitting up to get a better angle of attack. Finally the buttons give, and he kneels up to drag the offending garment down Aziraphale's legs.

“ _Long johns?!”_ He all but howls. Aziraphale gasps a laugh.

“Trousers are a layer, love.”

Crowley glares at him for a moment before slipping off the bed to tear the trousers over Aziraphale's feet.

“You get a prize for a laye-ah-ah!” Aziraphale attempts to reminds him, but Crowley has discovered his feet, and with absolutely no ceremony at all has whipped his sock off and sucked his big toe into his mouth. “Dear _God!_ ”

Crowley pulls the angel's toe from his mouth with a loud pop.

“No more little prizesss,” Crowley snarls. “Want the _real_ present.”

“Yes, yes, oh please.” Aziraphale is reduced to panting gasps as Crowley crawls back onto the bed and mouths at his arousal through his underwear, before burying his nose into the angel's crotch and inhaling obscenely.

“Fuck, so good.” Crowley grips the waistband of the long johns, and Aziraphale cants his hips up helplessly.

“You know how snakes sssmell things?” Crowley's voice has gone sibilant as his control slips, and he slides the fabric over Aziraphale's hips. “With their _tonguesss_. Gonna tassste so fuckin'...” He pauses, and then looks up to fix the angel with his lambent gaze.

“You're wearing briefsss... under long johnsss.” There's a hint of panic in Crowley's golden eyes, and Aziraphale giggles helplessly.

“Sorry, yes, I, well, it's the way you're supposed to...”

“Angel.” Crowley sits back on his heels. There's a twitch pulling a tiny muscle under his eye. “Please, _please_ tell me you're not wearing anything under the briefs.”

“I most solemnly swear, I am not wearing anything under my underwear.”

“Thank _fuck_ for that.” Crowley grinds the words out through gritted teeth, before taking hold of Aziraphale's briefs and tearing them in half savagely, ripping them away from the angel's body.

“Good Lord, _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale yelps. Any further protestations are lost as Crowley bends over and runs his tongue up his cock, and his mind goes blissfully blank. Aziraphale buries his fingers in Crowley's hair as he arches up into the caressing touch with a groan, and Crowley takes that as an invitation and draws the head of his cock into his mouth.

“Oh...” Aziraphale breathes. Crowley looks up at him and arches an eyebrow questioningly.

“Oh, yes, Crowley, dear _Lord..._ ” Aziraphale lets his head fall back onto the pillows as Crowley slides his mouth down, engulfing him in the hot wetness of his mouth. “Yes, oh, just like that...”

Crowley hums in pleased agreement as Aziraphale's fingers tighten in his hair, and he begins moving his head languidly up and down, eyes half-closed in lazy enjoyment. Aziraphale looks down at him and wonders how it's possible for him to look so smug with an angel's cock in his mouth. Then Crowley opens his mouth to give Aziraphale a front-row seat as he slides his forked tongue up both sides of his shaft simultaneously, before diving back down and wrapping his lips around the hot length.

“Oh _fuck_ , that's... Oh, your tongue!” Aziraphale's mouth falls open at the sight. Surely this is blasphemy, because never has he felt so _worshiped_. There's a hot, tight feeling low in his stomach, sending waves of pleasure rolling through him as sweat prickles his brow. Crowley is growling in the back of his throat and it's lighting him up with sensation.

“I'm... Oh, darling, I'm close...” Aziraphale breathes, his hands clenching in Crowley's hair, and the demon moans around his cock before taking the full length and swallowing around it.

Aziraphale arches his back helplessly and comes with a breathy gasp, a surge of euphoria crashing over him like a tidal wave. He closes his eyes helplessly and grips Crowley's hair for dear life as the last shocks judder through him and the ecstacy ebbs away, to be replaced with a feeling of profound satisfaction.

“Oh, oh my dear, my _darling,_ ” He whispers, untangling his fingers from his lover's russet hair and lifting his head to gaze down at him.

Crowley looks slightly stunned as he looks up at the angel, yellow eyes wide and hair in disarray.

“That okay, then?”

“Oh, _more_ than okay, my love. Positively _glorious_.” Aziraphale reaches out to cup Crowley's cheek in his hand. “I hope I didn't pull your hair too hard, I-I got a little carried away.”

Crowley shrugs, the crimson blush suffusing his cheeks giving lie to his nonchalance.

“S' all right,” he mumbles. “Quite liked it.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow. “I shall make a note of it.”

Crowley frowns and opens his mouth to argue, but all that comes out is a groan as Aziraphale rakes his fingers through his unruly red hair.

“Now, my dear,” Aziraphale all but purrs, “I find you overdressed for the occasion.”

Crowley sits back on his heels with a crooked grin.

“Yeah. Yeah, all right.”

He tugs his scarf off over his head and casually flings it to the floor, closely followed by his silver chain. He looks down at Aziraphale as he tugs his belt through the loops of his jeans and tosses it aside, only to wince at the 'thump' of the heavy buckle hitting the floor.

“Sorry, sorry, fuck...” he mumbles, looking down to fumble with the buttons of his waistcoat.

“Crowley dear, what on earth are you apologizing for?”

Crowley raises his gaze again to rake his eyes over the angel's body spread before him on the sheets. He swallows.

“I'm... Look, it's just... I don't want you to be, um, disappointed, is all.”

“What?” Aziraphale's brows draw together. “Why would you think I would be?”

“Well, I'm not...” Crowley gives up on the buttons with a sigh, dropping his hands to rest them on his thighs. “I'm not much to look at.”

“That might possibly be the silliest thing I've ever heard you say.”

“Yeah, no, but, I'm not... _nice_ to look at, like you. You're all... sunshine, and-and strawberries and cream and I'm... I look like a haunted hatstand. I'm all twiggy and spindly...”

“I'm going to stop you right there, my dear.” Aziraphale shoves himself a little more upright against the mound of pillows to reach his hands out to grip Crowley's. “There is nothing, absolutely _nothing_ about you that would disappoint me. I don't care if you're covered in fur, or have... I don't know, a-a map of Swindon tattooed on your buttocks! You are _Crowley,_ and I love you dearly. Of course, if you wish to keep your clothes on then that's fine, and I will be _just_ as content, and _just_ as in love with you. But don't for a _moment_ think that you have to hide from me.”

“Yeah.” Crowley sniffs, tosses his head, raises a shoulder. “'Course. I know that. 'S just a body, isn't it? Just, all skin and... stuff.”

“My love, and I mean this _most_ sincerely,” Aziraphale murmurs, “the most important thing about your body to me is that _you're_ in it.”

Crowley makes an undignified sound in the back of his throat, his expression caught somewhere between delight and mortification.

“Shut up.” he groans, tilting his head back to stare fixedly at the ceiling in the hope that it might disguise the mistiness in his eyes. “Okay. Okay, fine.”

He takes a deep breath and slips off the side of the bed. With a swift movement he grabs his shirt and waistcoat and drags them off over his head before he can talk himself out of it. He strips off his jeans and slides the socks from his feet before straightening up to look over at Aziraphale.

“Well, that's... I mean, this is, well, me. Um...” Crowley wishes he was still wearing his sunglasses. Somehow he feels even more naked without them, and he can feel the heat of a blush blooming embarrassingly across his chest. He cocks his hip in an attempt at casualness, but his yellow eyes shift around the room before his gaze settles on the angel, who has risen up to his elbows and is regarding him with a look of abject horror.

“Oh...” Aziraphale moans, and one hand flutters up to his trembling mouth, his blue eyes wide in shock. “Oh, _Crowley_...”

“Yeaaah, we're done here.” Crowley stoops to snatch up his jeans and is stopped by a pair of firm hands grasping him by the shoulders. He can't look at the angel, can't bear to see the look on his face, so he looks down and away.

“Go ahead, gawp away,” he snarls, “but it's a penny to look at the freak.”

“No-no-no... oh my dear, my _darling_...” Aziraphale is all but whimpering, “I've done this to you, oh, this is _my_ fault...”

“The fuck are you bleating on about now?” Crowley sneers. “Didn't try hard enough to fatten me up?”

Aziraphale is making little broken sounds, breathy cries of pain, and Crowley finally snaps his attention back to him.

Aziraphale is standing in front of him,staring wide-eyed at Crowley's stomach where five pits of scar tissue pucker the tan skin.

“... Oh,” Crowley mumbles. “Those.”

“It's my _fault!_ ” Aziraphale wails, his bright eyes brimming with tears. “I-I didn't... I should have...”

“Okay, okay, just breathe.” Crowley puts his hands to Aziraphale's shoulders and pushes him down to sit on the edge of the bed, seating himself alongside. “What do you mean it's your fault?”

“Why, the whole reason you were so anxious about... Those-those... oh Crowley, your _scars!_ How you can even bear to sit next to me? Oh, how can you even _look_ at me?”

Aziraphale buries his face in his hands with a shudder.

“Hey, that's... that's not it at all,” Crowley murmurs, smoothing his hand along the angel's arm. “The scars don't bother me, not a bit.”

“You're just being kind!” Aziraphale's voice is muffled in his fingers, and thick with tears. “To think that you've had those all this time, and it's all because I was too much of a coward to...”

“All right, that's enough,” Crowley says decisively, and he gently pulls Aziraphale's hands from his tear-stained face. “You're gonna stop beating yourself up about this right now. Hey, look at me.”

Aziraphale obeys, raising his liquid blue gaze to meet Crowley's golden eyes.

“There you are.” Crowley's face has gone unbearably soft, a look of such tenderness suffusing his angular features that it's almost enough to make Aziraphale weep again. He swallows hard and focuses on the feeling of Crowley's thumbs smoothing over the backs of his hands.

“You didn't heal me, but it wasn't because you're a coward. You did everything you could. And, and I guess that's why I'm not ashamed of them. They've never bothered me.” Crowley's face twists into an embarrassed grimace. “I'm gonna tell you something, and you have to _promise_ me you're not going to go all gooey and doe-eyed at me, okay?”

Aziraphale nods and gives him a shaky smile, and Crowley takes a breath and averts his gaze.

“When I told you I didn't remember anything about it, that's... not entirely the truth. What I _do_ remember is you looking after me. You came back, and you didn't have to, but you did, and you did everything you could to bring me through. I remember you being gentle, and kind, a-and so I don't hate the scars because it remindsmethatyouheldme.”

This last he blurts in such a jumbled rush that it takes Aziraphale a moment to parse, but when he does he can't help the tremble in his voice.

“Oh, _Crowley..._ ”

“Stop it, stop it, I told you you weren't allowed to do that!” Crowley's face is crimson with embarrassment, his shoulders hunched, and Aziraphale is powerless to stop the smile that creeps over his face.

“So... you're really not self-conscious because of them?”

“What, of scars?” Crowley's eyebrows shoot up. “Shut up! Scars are cool! I'm bloody self-conscious because I've got less meat on me than a chicken McNugget and the body condition of a whippet with a chronic speed habit!”

“Well now it's my turn to comfort you.” Aziraphale raises his hand, linked with Crowley's, and presses a kiss to the demon's knuckles. “You are beautiful, my dear, and I won't hear another word about it.”

“But...”

“Not another word, you gorgeous thing.”

“Fine,” Crowley huffs. “Fine. You want to have it off with someone that looks like the lovechild of Iggy Pop and a toast rack, well, here I am.”

“What's an 'Iggy Pop'?”

“Don't worry about it.”

There's a long beat of silence before Crowley clears his throat.

“I hate to bring this up, but right now we're both sitting on the edge of the bed, naked.”

“And?” Aziraphale cocks his head.

“And it's a bit weird, innit? You and me, just... sitting around... with no clothes on.”

“Would you prefer to be _in_ the bed?”

Crowley looks askance at the angel.

“Would _you?_ ”

“I think it sounds nice. We can get under the covers and cuddle.”

“Nope.” Crowley sticks his chin out as Aziraphale slips onto the bed and wriggles under the duvet. “Demon's definitely don't 'cuddle'.”

“Alright, snuggle, then.” Aziraphale pats the side of the bed next to him, and Crowley huffs a sigh and slides under the covers.

“'Snuggle' is worse,” he grumbles, nevertheless throwing a gangly arm over the angel's chest.

“Well what _do_ you want to call it, then?”

“Um.” Crowley plasters his lean body down Aziraphale's side and buries his face in his shoulder. “I dunno. Corporeal contact. Slow motion wrestling. Proximity with intent.”

“You are ridiculous, and I adore you.” Aziraphale slips his arm round the demon's shoulders and runs his fingers down Crowley's spine. “Still, I think I might have made a bit of a pig's ear of tonight.”

“'S alright.” Crowley mumbles. “Still got a blowjob and a cuddle.”

“I thought we weren't cuddling?”

“Whatever, shut up. And it's fine, don't worry about it. Just glad we worked it out.”

“Yes. Took us long enough, I suppose.”

“Especially with all the fuck-ups.” Crowley raises his head, his eyes lambent. “I'm sorry, you know. For being a dick.”

“I forgive you, if you'll forgive me the same.”

“Done.” Crowley rolls onto his back to stare up a the ceiling. “You know, none of this worked out the way I thought it would. Declarations of love, kissing, getting naked... I reckon, between the two of us, we've managed to get every bit wrong.”

“I suppose the course of true love never did run smooth,” Aziraphale murmurs, and Crowley snorts derisively.

“Yea, 'bout as smooth as... a-a thing that's not very smooth. Um, a cat's tongue? Sandpaper?”

“A brick?” Aziraphale muses. “Oh, a Border Terrier!”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. “Are those the ones that look like an old man with a beard?”

“No, Border Terriers look like something you find stuck to the carpet after a party.”

“Ah.” Crowley turns his head, his gaze flicking over Aziraphale's familiar face. “So, what do you want to do now?”

“Well, I don't mind. I quite like the not-cuddling.”

“Could we maybe try the kissing thing again?” Crowley wriggles a little closer. “And maybe see how things go?”

Post Orgasmic

“Fuck... fucking... Wow.”

“Yes, quite.”

“I mean, really bloody... really...”

“I absolutely agree.”

“I didn't even know I could _bend_ like that, and I'm part snake!”

“Well I do rather think that might've given you a bit of an advantage over me.”

“And then you did that thing... Wow.”

“I didn't even realize I was still wearing one sock until my knees were around my ears.”

“Well I _was_ doing my best to distract you, angel.”

“Oh, I was certainly distracted. Quite preoccupied.”

Crowley, with some effort, raises his head from the pillow to look blearily up at the angel, who is currently nestled in a mound of cushions, reading.

“Hey, Aziraphale?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I bloody love you, you know that?”

“Well, you did scream it into my ear several times, so yes.”

“I mean it. I really do. You're... you're so good, and patient, and-and soft, and you...”

“I love you too dear, now do try and rest. You need your sleep.”

“Yeah, but,” Crowley mumbles, flinging one arm around Aziraphale's waist and nuzzling into his side, “I really want you to know that I mean it, and you're so fucking special and clever, and I don't want you to think that I don't appreciate you, or...”

“Of _course_ I know you appreciate me, and I you.” Aziraphale reaches down with his free hand to comb his fingers through Crowley's hair. “But right now, you're babbling, so just rest.”

“I know, I know...” Crowley's voice is trailing away, his body melting against the angel. “I just need you to know I don't blame you, for anything, and I don't want you to feel guilty or sad about any of it, because I don't regret a thing, not one...”

“My dear, it is lovely to hear you say that, but Crowley?”

“Hmmm?”

“Go to sleep.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [We Will Draw Near (podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22550614) by [BiP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiP/pseuds/BiP)




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